We All Go Back Somewhere Someday
by Azrael DiAngelo
Summary: It's the year 2074— 60 years since the demise of the Winchesters. To regular people, the Winchesters are remembered as ruthless criminals that constantly faked their deaths. To hunters and monsters— well, they all know the true story of the brothers. But it doesn't matter now because they're dead and they can't hurt people anymore, right?
1. Chapter 1: Wake

_And if you listen very hard…The tune will come to you at last…When all are one and one is all…To be a rock and not to roll…And she's buying — _

His right hand reaches blindly for his business phone sitting on the table next to his bed. He's too lazy to open his eyes; though if you asked him, he'd blame it on lack of sleep. His fingers eventually gripped the ringing device, its ringtone still screeching against his eardrums in the dark bedroom.

_And she's buying a stairway to heaven… _

He opens the phone and immediately closes it. It was too goddamn early in the morning for this; and oh, how he loathed that song. He's not sure when he began to hate _Stairway to Heaven_, his favorite song by his favorite band, but now he couldn't stand it. He despised waking up everyday to the rock song blasting through his cell phone's miniature speakers, but he couldn't bring himself to change it. Instead, he went through his daily routine of attempting to halt the song's playing before it finished and resisting the urge to throwing it out the window.

He rubbed his bloodshot brown eyes and slowly, reluctantly, began to open them. He abruptly jerked his body forward, left hand squeezing the handle of the pistol he kept under his pillow as he quickly scanned his surroundings. He breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't notice anything unusual or out of place. He swept his hand through his messy dirty blonde hair and then down his scruffy face. He tossed his legs over the side of the bed and looked at the time: 4 A.M.

On an ordinary day, he wouldn't be bothered with a phone call until six or seven in the morning. On a regular day, he would give himself a pep talk as he sluggishly moved around his dangerously disorganized apartment, getting ready for another long day at a job he didn't appreciate as much as he used to. He would slip into a white button down shirt that he found lying on the dusty floor and stub his pinky toe against a cardboard box full of dishes as he struggled to pull his navy blue slacks on. He wouldn't bother brushing his hair and teeth, or shaving, as he leaves the place he didn't have the courage to call "home" yet in a hurry with a red clip-on tie in one hand and a slightly open briefcase in the other. He would work all day and drink himself to sleep at night because sleeping pills just didn't seem to work for him anymore. Then, pass out and repeat.

Yes, that's what would usually happen, but today wasn't an average day for FBI Agent Jeff Rowland. _Beep, beep._ A text message— this was something he was conscious enough to answer. He turned on the phone that's supposed to be able to be contacted at all times, and checked his inbox.

There were three messages.

_**ALEX:**__ We've got him._

_**ALEX:**__ Come over here ASAP._

_**ALEX:**__ Sam Winchester is in custody._


	2. Chapter 2: Next Door

He just barely manages to place one of his sweaty palms between the train doors before they close. He jerks his hand back and curses the conductor to hell as the E train leaves the 42nd Street station. He backs away from the platform edge and sits down on a bench. He taps his foot impatiently, glancing down the tunnel every few seconds, and checks the time: 4:30 A.M. He didn't drink any coffee and yet he has never felt so alert in his life. He's never been so eager to go to work either. He looks down the tracks leading into the tunnel again, hoping to see the familiar light of a coming train. He didn't. You'd think that after so many years of construction and inventions, somebody would've invented a goddamn teleporter by now.

He looks around, trying to keep his fluttering mind occupied for the moment. To his left, a baby girl cries as who he assumes is her mother cradles her in her arms. The woman paces back and forth, shushing the child wrapped in her limbs. Sitting on another bench, surrounded by shopping bags in a variety of sizes and colors, was a little boy who couldn't be more than four years old. The boy's feet dangled off the edge of his seat, several inches above the ground as he sat mesmerized by a shiny device in his hands. He had no idea what they called it these days—Nintendo - something? A new technological "breakthrough" came out every month, so he never took the time to learn what they were called or what they did. He infers that the kid belongs to the woman when she asks him to grab a bottle of formula from the stroller next to her. Some things never changed.

The subway station was packed to the max. Apparently rush hour began before the usual time he got there. He finds it ironic that he lived in New York, the city that never slept, when all he ever wanted to do was sleep. No matter what nightmares plagued him when his eyelids had no other choice but to close, they would always be better than the crap he had to put up with in reality; when he actually managed to get some sleep, that is.

After checking his watch and the non-existent progress of the next train, Jeff leaned back against the graffiti covered wall and let his eyes droop.

A memory:

_His skin feels like it's on fire, yet bone-numbing chills slither down his spine. Multi-colored stars dance across his pupils every time he attempts to lift his eyelids. His nose is full of mucus so he tries breathing through his mouth, only to immediately kickstart a severe fit of coughing. It seemed that he couldn't open his mouth without having his body try and hack up a lung. He tries to scream for help, to make it stop, but a wave of nausea hits him like a cannonball to the stomach and he just barely makes it to the bathroom. He doesn't know when he started crying, but as he kneels over the toilet on the dimly-lit white tiles of the bathroom floor, he can't seem to stop the salty tears sliding down his pale, blotchy cheeks._

_A hand strokes his back soothingly, and he takes in a shaky gulp of air. A sob escapes his throat. A soft voice quiets him and something is slipped between his teeth. He rolls it around on his tongue. It's squishy, yet solid. There's a metallic liquid oozing from it; it drips down his chin. He screws his eyes shut, pinches his nose, finishes chewing the mysterious substance, and apprehensively swallows it._

_He suddenly has the strength to open his eyes and tilt his head to the side. There he sees the most beautiful woman in the world sitting cross legged adjacent from him. Her blond hair reminds him of Goldilocks as the dull lights flickered above them. Her green eyes make him think of the seaweed she used to wrap the awesome sushi she makes for the PTA meetings at his school. Or maybe that's just his stomach talking. His stomach hasn't had much to say in the past couple of hours._

_He opens his mouth and swallows more of that squishy pink stuff that she's feeding him. He lets out a satisfying sigh and leaves his mouth hanging open for more. He didn't have a clue what he was eating, but it wasn't half bad._

_"Remember to chew, Sweetie," she says, her smile grim and tight around the edges._

_He wonders what's bothering her; what has her eyebrows furrowed and forehead creased with worry and stress. He wonders if he did anything wrong. He wonders what that pink stuff is._

_Although it's slightly painful, he twists the corners of his mouth into a small smile to put her at ease. But he only manages to make her seem more nervous. His reflection in the bathroom mirror has a slightly delirious, red-liquid covered smile on its face. _

_"Don't worry, Mom."_

A nightmare:

_It's a sunny day when he decides that he feels well enough to go back to school. He wakes up to the birds chirping outside his bedroom window and the smell of chocolate chip pancakes drafting through the air from downstairs. He tosses the blankets off of himself and scurries to the kitchen. He scarfs down his food like he hasn't eaten in several years, puts his clothes on, grabs his sneakers, snatches the lunch that she packed for him out of her hands, and sprints out the door. He had exactly ten minutes to get to class. He ended up being late anyway though, and later on he would wish that he had at least greeted his mother that morning._

_The rest of the day is a blur of pencils, monotonous lecturing, and class work-induced paper cuts. He can't recall what he ate that day. A kid named Charles beat him up and stole his lunch — that he remembers; a little too vividly for his liking. He walked home from his middle school and returned to his house in the afternoon. It was 2:51 P.M. He would always remember the time._

_For years he would block out what happened, pretend that it was someone else's sob story. He ignored the feelings: being frozen at that front door, hands numb with fright yet shaking in fury, and a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He doesn't like remembering how absolutely useless he was as the most beautiful woman in the world was stabbed in the heart by that monster. He ignored the sensations: heart pounding rapidly in his chest, eyes stinging with tears, each breath coming out shallow and quick, and the ringing in his ears. The blood staining her shirt, her fox-like eyes, the blade imbedded in her chest, the look on the face of —_

The honk of the train pulled Jeff out of his light slumber. He let out a shaky breath as he lifted himself warily off of the bench and toward the train doors. He sat down inside and buried his face in his palms. He checked the time again: 4:40 A.M. In about 20 minutes he was going to meet the brother of his mother's killer, and maybe now he would get his revenge.


End file.
